


Pink Alchemy

by ckret2



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Gen, Mad Science, Mad Scientists, Medical Experimentation, Mild Gore, Pink Alchemy, Scents & Smells, faintly implied Scorponok/Zarak, like no ACTUAL cannibalism but "sentient species eating another sentient species", some of the body horror is "robot disgusted by normal organic things", some of the body horror is actual body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23536612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckret2/pseuds/ckret2
Summary: Scorponok—Decepticon deserter who should really be getting hunted down by the DJD right about now—hails the flagship of the Decepticon infiltration unit hovering over Nebulos to demand that Megatron spare this planet. He's been working on a few science projects with the locals that he thinks the Decepticon Army might like to see.Megatron sends Ravage down to see if he has anything worth their time.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 22





	Pink Alchemy

**Author's Note:**

> As long as we don't know where pink alchemy comes from, I can't think of any more likely inventor than Mr. "let's turn flesh creatures into Cybertronian heads!" Scorp-"let's stick Decepticon sparks in flesh creatures to breed more flesh creatures and then stick the sparks back in robots!"-onok. Dude has a little too much fun finding ways to pour flesh into robotic systems.
> 
> This was written for the zine [Rise Up: A Decepticon Anthology](https://decepticontent-zine.tumblr.com/). The zine was divided into three sections, with each one having a different theme; my section was “What makes a Decepticon?” Digital copies were emailed out last week so we're now free to post our works! I wrote two pieces on Scorponok, a long fic and a short character study; [the short one's available here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902051).
> 
> You know how IDW Phase One before RID/MTMTE started often has this sense of like... self-important grandeur to the dialogue? Like every character thought every single line he spoke was of profound importance? I tried to mimic that style in this fic. It was fun.

“Incoming transmission for Megatron.” Starscream’s voice was tinny and hollow over the temporary space station’s speakers. “From everyone’s least favorite self-professed Decepticon.”

When Megatron arrived on the bridge, the first thing he said was, “ _All_ Decepticons are self-professed, Starscream.”

Lounging in his command chair, Starscream retorted, “Not our MTOs.” Mainly, Megatron felt, because he wanted to win the point.

The command chair was rightfully Starscream's. Infiltrating Nebulos was to be Starscream's mission—Megatron was here for the preparatory stages, but once Phase One began, he was leaving until Phase Six. However, as long as Megatron _was_ here, command fell to him. Starscream didn't yield his seat until Megatron was looming over him, then stood and swept around to stand beside it.

Megatron sat and focused on the view screen showing Nebulos. “And who, by _your_ measure, is everyone’s least favorite self-professed Decepticon?”

“Scorponok.” The name was delivered as a derisive, delighted hiss.

Megatron’s optics brightened. Since fleeing Cybertron after his brief usurpation, Scorponok had only rarely been encountered by (soon-to-be-decimated) Decepticon forces. This was going to be a... _very dubious_ pleasure.

“By all means.” Megatron gestured at the screen. “Let’s find out why Scorponok has honored us with a call.”

Scorponok’s scowling face filled the screen, as tall as Megatron. He still wore his Deceptibrand. “Word has reached me that the Decepticons are gearing up to infiltrate Nebulos.” Anger poured from him like shimmering waves of air rising off overheated armor. “Desist at once and withdraw your forces!”

Starscream poorly disguised a laugh as a cough. Megatron sneered. “You led the Decepticons for all of a few days, in what could best be described as a series of unmitigated personal and military disasters, and millions of years later you still think you have the right to command them like your private army. What could possibly be worth sparing on that planet?”

“For starters, _I’m_ on the planet!”

Megatron’s gaze shot to the communications officers. Laserbeak murmured, “We can’t get a fix on his location, but he does seem to be in this star system.” Next to him, Buzzsaw hissed, "Should I call the...?"

The Decepticon Justice Division. Scorponok had been consorting with organics for millennia, tossing out Cybertronian trinkets left and right that the Decepticons would _far_ rather he not. By Megatron's view, most of the Tyrest Accord was, at best, suggestions that the Decepticons were free to take or ignore. But Article Three was sacrosanct: you do not give Cybertronian technology to aliens. They are unworthy of the honor and irresponsible with the results. Particularly, aiding the advancement of _organics_ —organics who could and would turn such blessings against mechanicals—went against everything the Decepticons fought for. Scorponok had a well-earned spot on the DJD's List.

Even so, Megatron made a subtle slicing gesture, belaying Buzzsaw's idea. He wanted to find out what Scorponok was up to first. "You value yourself far too highly if you expect me to consider sparing you. Try again."

"Then the planet itself. All you know about Nebulos is that it's covered in flesh. You don't know what—what wonders there are here! What beautiful, bountiful resources! They might be soft on the outside—" Scorponok tapped a claw tip against his temple, "—but their _minds,_ Megatron—they're as brilliant as any Cybertronians. The things we could accomplish if we _worked_ with them, instead of—of extinguishing them like scraplets...!"

Starscream shifted back, away from Scorponok's effusive defense. His disgusted grimace matched Megatron's.

Scorponok cut himself off and said, "You don't believe me." His tone implied he considered this a deep character flaw.

"On the contrary," Megatron said, "I'm well aware that if you get enough fleshlings together and give them enough of a technological head start, they can perform some impressive tricks. That's what makes it so _imperative_ that we _eliminate_ them, swiftly and with prejudice. Even _more_ swiftly, if the ones on this world are as clever as you say."

Panic flashed in Scorponok's optics, then quickly turned to anger. "Then I'll show you. Come and see—I'll be _more than happy_ to give you a tour."

Megatron's scowl deepened—but he brooded over the offer. "We'll be awaiting your coordinates." He gestured to the birds to end the call.

The moment the screen went dark, Starscream rounded on Megatron, leaning over the chair. "You can't be thinking of going! This is a _transparent_ attempt to drag you into another showdown. And even if you win, this is the opposite of what I—what _we_ need if we're initiating infiltration protocol—"

Megatron shoved Starscream back. _If_ indeed. "Obviously, _I'm_ not going," he snapped. "But we need to assess just _how much_ of a threat his activities pose to our plans." If Scorponok was already embedded on Nebulos, he might expose the Decepticons to the natives long before they finished dissecting Nebulos from the inside; but, on the other hand, if he was deeply embedded _enough_ , trying to excise him might pose an even greater risk of exposing them. "We'll send someone who Scorponok will underestimate as a threat, who can competently scout out his operation, and who would have the best odds of defending himself and escaping if Scorponok gets offended. Who stationed here is most qualified?"

Starscream glanced toward the birds; Laserbeak glided for the door. "I'll go alert Ravage."

###

S&Z Holdings, LLC had a small office. A tiny lobby in the front; in the back, six cubicles, one private office, and a couple of rooms that Ravage could tell by smell were for the benefit of the organics' need to consume and expel other organics.

"It's not much yet," said Ravage's host—Mo Zarak, the Z in S&Z—into a blocky communicator; "but there's plenty of room for us to dig down before we have to expand."

When he'd provided the coordinates, Scorponok had emphasized how, if Ravage was brought inside in alt-mode on a cart, the primitive Nebulans would think him a piece of large hardware; and if Zarak spoke into this native wireless communicator and Ravage silently replied via comm, then nobody would suspect that Zarak was giving the hardware a tour. Absolute secrecy was maintained. Ravage could enter Scorponok's facility without any of the natives noticing.

Here was the first problem: Scorponok had evidently forgotten that _Zarak_ was one of the natives.

"There's not much on the ground floor that would be of interest to you." Zarak wheeled Ravage's cart between the cubicles. "Finance, accounting, and public relations. We keep the stuff you're looking for in the basement."

" _What are the workers up here told this office is for?_ "

"Mining. My business partner has developed some proprietary equipment to locate subterranean deposits of valuable ores. We buy cheap land and hire others to extract the goods. We make a tidy profit, but most of the proceeds are put into our other business ventures."

His "business partner" was Scorponok, of course—and Ravage had no doubt his "proprietary equipment" was illegally-shared Decepticon technology. What, then, were their "other business ventures"?

From what little intel Ravage had on Nebulans, the ones he glimpsed in the cubicles looked and smelled healthy and relaxed. Scorponok was treating his laborers quite well, for organics that should have been disposable. Why?

That wasn't the only strange scent Ravage had picked up. " _You don't smell wholly organic._ " Zarak smelled Cybertronian. " _Why?_ "

"You can tell? Yes, that's a, ahh—a new medical procedure I'm undergoing. I shouldn't talk about my health over the phone," where his employees could overhear, "but I'm sure my business partner will happily discuss it with you."

The stairs into the basement were in Zarak's office; the basement had a hidden door to a room full of boxed things that Ravage could only assume were of questionable legality on Nebulos; the hidden room had a concealed lift that activated when Zarak broadcasted a Cybertronian frequency. A common strategy used by facsimile avatars in infiltration units: fill the entrance to a Decepticon facility with contraband to distract pursuers who knew the avatars were up to something suspicious, but not what. They'd reach the contraband and not assume there was anything beyond it worth seeking. Scorponok was teaching Zarak these tricks?

The stench of flesh was supposed to decrease as the lift descended. It didn't. The air was suffused with warm meat smell. " _How many organics work down here?_ "

Zarak opened his mouth to answer—every time he did that Ravage heard the wet sounds of his lips parting and his tongue moving—but a new signal joined the comm call: " _I have thirty-two Nebulans working in these labs—and quite a few more who are being worked_ on." Scorponok chuckled nastily. Tucked inside his alt-mode, Ravage's audial fins flicked. " _Welcome, Ravage. A pity Megatron couldn't make it, but I'm honored that he thought to send a fellow beast to meet me._ "

Ravage swallowed a derisive laugh. " _Megatron sends his regrets._ "

" _I'm sure he does_." The lift settled at the bottom of the shaft. Scorponok spoke out loud: "Transform. There's no one down here who doesn't already know our secrets."

Ravage was afraid of that. As he transformed, Zarak made a hideous meaty grunting noise that Ravage assumed indicated surprise. "My word—Scorponok told me your species comes in all shapes, but I'd assumed he meant your alt-modes. I didn't know some of you were quadrupeds."

"Now you know," Ravage said flatly.

The shape and scale of the facility was familiar from a thousand other infiltration bases—but the equipment was tiny, scaled for Nebulan use. The walls looked bare and empty.

"Come," Scorponok said. "I promised you a tour. And my little scientists are as eager to see a new Cybertronian as you are to see what they're up to."

Even though Ravage knew his attention deflectors wouldn't work on fleshlings, he felt them burn and buzz. He followed Scorponok into the labs.

###

What a happy little scientific facility Scorponok had here, full of inspired and enthusiastic scientists who watched Ravage curiously. Their contentment under Scorponok's protection worried Ravage.

He was especially concerned with Zarak, now riding on Scorponok's shoulder. While the other Nebulans called him "Zarak," Scorponok called him "Mo," with a tiny smile. Scorponok reeked of affection, leaking from under his armor, as vile and flagrant as the stench of burnt wires. Ravage tried to focus on the other scents so he wouldn't have to figure out exactly what kind of affection Scorponok was leaking.

The lab was a dozen Tyrest Accord violations a minute. Ravage passed organic medical tests using artificial spark signals, screens displaying massive weapon blueprints that Ravage doubted were public domain. He stopped in a room with a model of a Nebulan designed to transform, innards and all, into a massive head. His fuel tank turned at the sight of organs and muscles rubbing over sensitive hardware and wires.

"It's a bit of a mess," Scorponok lamented. "We've got proof of concept now—it _does_ work, without fatality—but, it's very delicate. The transformation sequence is five minutes long to prevent anything from being crushed." (Ravage thought of blood dripping into gears and felt ill.) "It will go much more smoothly once some of the internal organs are replaced with synthetic Cybertronian equivalents."

He could imagine the smell of rust, rot, corrosion. Ravage dropped his optics from the model to Nebulan characters engraved on its base and struggled to translate them to avoid thinking about a head with meat folded up inside. "'Mortilus Prototype,'" Ravage read. "Are all your projects named after our myths?" It hardly mattered—what was sharing Cybertron's legends compared to sharing Cybertron's weaponry?—but focusing on the name kept him from retching.

"You think Mortilus is a myth?" Scorponok scoffed lightly. "Regardless, no. Mortilus—Mo, here— _is_ the prototype."

Ravage stared at Zarak, optics white with shock. His strange, Cybertronian scent—"You?!"

"The name's a coincidence. I'm not a facsimile," Zarak said, as though _that_ was Ravage's concern. "It used to be common, although it's a tad old-fashioned now. No connection to your god."

"But one could almost call it fate." Scorponok spoke with such a jocular smile that Ravage wondered whether he was mocking the idea of fate, or deprecating his own belief. "It would certainly make it easier for him to get along in Cybertronian circles, with an easy-to-pronounce name."

Scorponok intended to bring this ugly sack of waxy walking meat to Cybertron? Ravage's fuel tank churned again. "You made him a _head_. A head for _what_?"

"In our initial tests? Me."

The mental image of Scorponok's decapitated body capped with a dead meat-cored head seared itself into the space behind Ravage's optics. He recoiled from Scorponok. "No!"

"You should be more open-minded," Scorponok said, like it was a warning. "Headmasters have been recorded since our earliest history. They're _natural_. Although there _were_ ancient Cybertronians who found what headmasters could do repulsive—in much the same way they considered beasts repulsive. I'd think you'd empathize."

" _You_ should watch your words," Ravage snarled. "You're equating _Cybertronians_ with _organic aliens_. You're saying, as a beast, I'm _just as low_ as him."

Scorponok huffed, amused. "You know I don't mean it like that." He raised his claws, scorpion legs clattering on his back. "We're on the same side, Ravage."

They were no such thing. Scorponok reveled in the way being a beast supposedly made him _monstrous_ and _perverse_ and _aberrant_. For that, Ravage pitied him—but not as much as he loathed him.

But he wasn't going to say that to a traitor with an organic on his shoulder whom he was literally giving his body to. So Ravage hissed, but then turned away from the technorganic headmaster model and Scorponok both. "Show me the rest of it."

"If you insist."

###

The flesh started to smell different the deeper they went into Scorponok's facility. Ravage couldn't quite figure out how. He'd smelled it before; but organic scents, while as distinct as any mechanical ones, were far more difficult to put a name to. It all smelled fleshy.

They'd gone down a couple of flights before Ravage identified the change: it was the difference between warm living flesh and spoiled dead flesh.

Zarak covered his nose and mouth with a folded strip of fabric, coughing lightly.

There were fewer scientists back here, and they were quieter. Many wore masks. They looked at Ravage not with open curiosity, but with the wariness he thought he deserved.

"Last but not least," Scorponok said, "our most advanced project. I think you'll be quite impressed."

"It's an amazing bit of chemistry work," Zarak said from behind his fabric. Ravage wasn't sure if Zarak was praising the project for Ravage's benefit or if he was simply complimenting Scorponok.

Either way, Scorponok beamed. "The utter transmutation of one substance into another," he said. "I've called the process 'pink alchemy'—you'll see why."

As a heavy door slid open, a wave of rotting flesh stink rolled out. After the fine health of the other organics Ravage had seen, the row of decaying Nebulans held in vertical glass coffins was a surprise—but a welcome one. Some of the decaying organics twitched. Were they all still alive?

"You're harvesting their flesh?" Ravage guessed, looking at their desiccated shapes. At Scorponok's nod, he asked, "For what?"

Scorponok gestured. "For our use, of course."

Ravage followed his gesture. At the end of the room was a pile of energon cubes, off-color and cloudy. Pale flakes and particles churned in the tainted fuel.

Ravage stumbled back in horror, staring at the coffined corpses. He could feel their hair, their bones, their sagging skin in the back of his throat.

He gagged.

And then he ran.

###

"I'm confident he's got no sympathy for the organics," Ravage concluded. "They're only tools and resources to him. Any gifts he's giving them are bribes to keep them working for him. However, even if he isn't a traitor _now_ , I'm worried about his attention toward his pet. And he _is_ conducting those disgusting technorganic experiments—something no true Decepticon would do."

Without looking away from the screen displaying Ravage's collected footage, Megatron gestured, commanding silence. Ravage sat on his haunches and waited.

When the footage finished, the first thing Megatron said was, "The Deceptibrand is seized, not rewarded."

"Sir?"

"Anyone who claims the badge is a 'true Decepticon.' _Even_ the likes of Scorponok."

Ravage nodded, accepting the chastisement. Yes, he knew that very well. "But," he said, "some Decepticons are more true than others."

Megatron gazed at the last frame of Ravage's footage—a blurred image of an off-color energon cube, a mangled Nebulan hanging to the side. Finally, he glanced at Laserbeak and Buzzsaw. "Inform Scorponok we won't be infiltrating Nebulos—yet—in exchange for his 'pink alchemy'."

Ravage grimaced, exposing his sharp teeth. "But it's _revolting_."

"Less revolting than starvation."

The Decepticons' fuel situation wasn't that dire yet, but... Ravage couldn't blame Megatron for his caution.

"For all the fuel we're burning to eradicate flesh from our galaxy, it's only fair that they pay us back." Megatron turned to Starscream. "Contact the DJD. Tell them to knock Scorponok down to the bottom of their List." He paused. "You've been well-behaved lately. While you're at it, tell them to take you off the List, if you're on it right now."

Starscream bowed deeply in acknowledgment of the faint praise. "I'm actually not at the moment, but I'll be _more_ than happy to remind Glitch."

Ravage padded up to crouch beside Megatron's chair. Megatron lifted his hand off the armrest in offering, Ravage tilted his head toward Megatron, and Megatron set the hand on his head. "Bumped but not removed?" Ravage asked quietly. "Interesting decision."

"As misaimed as Scorponok's skills are, he _is_ brilliant. If he thinks this little planet offers so much, then I want to see what he'll produce for us." Megatron scratched behind Ravage's audial fins. "But make no mistake—he still deserves everything that's coming to him."

Ravage purred in acknowledgment, and turned his gaze toward the birds—trying to forget the sight of wisps of flesh floating through energon.

**Author's Note:**

> Post for this fic available on [tumblr](https://ckret2.tumblr.com/post/614786681044910080/pink-alchemy). Comments/reblogs there are highly appreciated (as are comments here)!


End file.
